


MacLeod's tailoring, Edinburgh

by ClaireScott



Series: Dirty Supernatural imagines [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Named Reader, Rebirth, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 17:21:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6385477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireScott/pseuds/ClaireScott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on "Imagine being in unrequited in love with Fergus MacLeod when he dies and turns into a demon he visits you as Crowley".</p>
            </blockquote>





	MacLeod's tailoring, Edinburgh

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language. I apologize for all the mistakes.

**Edinburgh, 1686**

You make your way back from the marketplace, feeling the sun on your face, thinking about your chances to marry again. Your husband died the winter before after being sick for weeks. He was a really good one and you miss him. But you have to feed your three children you have to think about the future, no time to mourn the past. You were born 24 summers before – so it would be very wise to marry again. And if you could make a wish you would choose Fergus MacLeod. He’s handsome, friendly and very obliging. And he’s not married. Never has been married. You know that Mrs. Otway gossips about Mr. MacLeod being … well, you don’t know how it exactly would work … being in love with men. But you give a shit about Mrs. Otway’s gossip. No time to mourn, no time to gossip. Anyway – you really like him and maybe … you sigh as his tailoring comes into sight. You work up all your courage and entering Mr. MacLeod’s premises.  
“Good Morning, Mr. MacLeod,” you greet and he looks up, smiling on you.  
“Good Morning, Mrs. Bain,” he answers and your heart stops for a second.  
He knows who you are. That’s quite good.  
“How can I help you?” He asks, putting a piece of dark green velvet aside.  
“Jacob … needs a new shirt and …”  
“I see,” he answers, raising his brows, “why don’t you sew it by yourself?”  
“I’m not good in sewing”, you whisper, asking yourself what the hell you are doing here.  
“You just need some practice, I guess. See, I know you’re widowed and I know how easily widowed women run out of money. So I think it would be wiser to spend your money on food and Jacob wears a shirt that’s not fully perfect.”  
He’s so caring and fair – everyone else would take your money, sew your son a shirt and forget about you in seconds.  
“Mr. MacLeod, I don’t want to be impertinent or intrusive, but … can you teach me?”  
The following silence is pondering.  
“We make a deal,” he says after a minute or so.  
“Yes”, you answer hastily, feeling the hope inside you constantly growing.  
“I would prefer to obtain your approval after you know what I’m talking about, Mrs. Bain.”  
“Beg your pardon, Mr. MacLeod.”  
He nods and gives you a little smile.  
“So, that’s the deal: I’m teaching you sewing and you are cleaning my rooms here twice a week.”  
“Thank you so much, Mr. MacLeod.”  
“You’re welcome.”

 

**Edinburgh, 1688**

You’ve been Mr. MacLeod’s cleaning lady for two years now and you’re able to sew nearly perfectly. With every lesson that has passed, with every month you fall deeper in love with Fergus MacLeod. But he … he clearly doesn’t want you. And now you’re married to a widowed baker who you don’t love. Every night your husband consummates the marriage you lay still, just as a good wife does, thinking of Fergus, dreaming about how gentle he would be, totally oppositional to your husband. When your husband’s gone to sleep you always have to fight your tears down, pressing your hand on your lower abdomen, praying for not having a child. As you notice your missing monthly bleeding, as you feel your body’s slowly swelling, as you start to fight with morning sickness you know you have to tell Mr. MacLeod you won’t come anymore. You have to quit your job. It breaks your heart saying goodbye to the love of your life. 

A few years later you heard he has died – and you start crying. You still love him. You will never stop loving him. And as you follow him in eternity just a year later, hours after giving birth to your seventh child is one of your last thoughts that you will see him again. 

 

~~~~~~

 

**Saint Paul, Minnesota, today**

You love the sound of your sewing machine, you love the morning sun shining in your little tailoring. You’ve opened a year ago and you’re good. You are your own boss, you earn enough money to pay your bills and your costumers love your work. You look up as the door opens and smiling to a man you have never seen before. You guess he’s Mrs. Pearson’s husband who comes to pay for the robe you made for his wife.  
“Good morning,” you say, “Mr. Pearson?”  
“No. Crowley,” he answers, smiling and watching you closely.  
Crowley? Never heard the name before. None of you costumers.  
“How can I help you, Mr. Crowley?” You ask, feeling a little bit like you lose your way.  
“You’re still beautiful,” he whispers, coming two steps nearer. “And adorable as back then in Edinburgh.”  
You stand up, grabbing your phone. This guy is a bit scary.  
“I’m sorry,” you answer, “I guess you mistake me for someone else. I’ve never been in Edinburgh before.”  
“Oh,” he grins, “You’ve been. You just don’t remember, dear. Mrs. Catherine Bain, later married to James MacTavish, a baker. As he died – it was in 1715 if I remember correctly – well, let me say, I took care of him. In person. He treated you so bad.”  
Oh, shit. This guy must be totally crazy.  
“Sir”, you say, “I’m sorry, but I think I can’t help you. Maybe you should leave.”  
Suddenly you feel yourself pressed to a wall, Mr. Crowley, king of weirdness, standing in front of you, just a few inches away.  
“It’s king of hell, (Y/N), but king of weirdness fits too.”  
“What do you want?” You ask breathlessly, feeling horror and fear pulsing through your veins. You didn’t say that aloud, you’re sure. “I have nothing. Just … a … STD.”  
“You haven’t. You’re in perfect health. I just want you to remember …,” he whispers, lifting his hand to your forehead.  
You feel his warm fingers on your skin, soothing the panic immediately. Everything inside you gets warm and fine, and you feel comforted and safe. It feels like the sun expunges the fog on an early morning. You see. You know. You smell him, see him, you remember his touch.  
“Fergus … Mr. MacLeod,” you whisper.  
“Catherine,” he answers. “I’m good with Fergus, okay?”  
You nod. It’s all you can do.  
“Am I allowed to kiss you, Catherine?”  
“Yes …,” you answer and close your eyes.  
His lips are unexpectedly soft, his stubbles scratching a bit over your chin.  
“I always wanted you, but you were such an eminently respectable, decent person. I never wanted to marry you but I dreamed about fucking you through the walls of my shop, bending you over the work bench, lifting your dress – I miss the times when a woman wears no panties. Sometimes I guess panties are an invention directly from hell – but we are virgins in this point.”  
He chuckles at your neck and you feel his hands sliding under your shirt.  
“Mr. MacLeod…,” you sigh, feeling all the things you felt in your life as Catherine Bain for Fergus MacLeod, the secret love of her life, of your life, back then.  
“Close the door,” he murmurs, “Let’s go upstairs.”  
You do as you’re told. It’s Fergus. The man you loved most about more than 300 years ago. You remember dying you remember hoping you would see him again. And there he is. It’s not Fergus MacLeod’s body anymore but you can see him although he’s hiding in this Crowley guy.  
You get naked in record speed after you closed the door to your bedroom. Fergus leans at your dresser, smiling at you.  
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, “So damn beautiful. Your soul’s always searching for matching bodies, Catherine.”  
“Thank you, Mr. MacLeod,” you answer, feeling shy and excited.  
It feels like the first night with Ian Bain and the first night with James MacTavish.  
“Come here, baby, Catherine,” Crowley whispers.  
You unbutton his shirt – although you don’t care how Crowley’s body looks like. You feel the warmth of his body under your hands, his hands on your back, caressing your spine, up and down, so as Fergus did the day you thought that your daughter Margaret would die because of the fever, the hunger and the depressing loneliness. You remember your sobbing while cleaning the tailoring, you remember the only time Fergus had touched you.  
“Margaret…,” you whisper, “Jacob, Elizabeth, George, Anne, Mary and Henry…”  
“I have never seen one of them,” he answers quietly, “so I know they are all gone to heaven. And maybe came back to live again. Just as their beautiful mother.”  
He kisses the corner of your mouth, holding you tight, waiting for you to come back from your overwhelming memories. You sigh and start kissing him, needy, greedy, appetent.  
“Catherine…,”Crowley moans at your lips as you grab him tighter, pressing your body against him.  
His hands finding your nipples, twisting softly, twirling until you moan your growing pleasure in his mouth.  
You pull him with you shove him to the bed, climbing on his stomach, his hands still on your tits. You want him, now. No time for mourning, no time for gossip, no time for questions. You have one chance and you want to take it. Your body is aching for him, for release, for catch up on everything you have missed with him.  
He growls as you line him up, as you sink on him, sighing, eyes closed. You ride him hard as you’ve learned in this life. Mrs. Bain-MacTavish never did anything like that – maybe the reason Fergus didn’t want you. Good girls go to heaven.  
Crowley’s skillful fingers massaging your clit, you ride through an intense orgasm, feeling the next one right in front of you. You scream of lust and pleasure, once again, and again. As Fergus follows you, as you feel his semen spilling out into you, you crash down on his chest, panting. Your eyes are closed you feel Crowley’s arms wrapped around you. As you came down, as you can think again you wonder why Fergus’ gone to hell.  
“I made a deal with the devil,” he whispers, “Unfortunately before we met. I should have wished to be able to love Mrs. Catherine Bain to the end of time. To make her happy forever.”  
“Thank you.”  
You see him, you see Fergus smiling at you, caressing your cheek.  
“I wish I could stay,” Crowley says, “But I have to go.”  
He lift his hands to your forehead and you feel so tired, you just need to sleep. You let him lay you on your back, feeling him kissing you good bye. 

 

~~~~~

 

As you wake it’s deep in the night.  
God, what a fucking dream that was, you think, searching for the light switch. You’re leaning on your headboard, thinking of this very strange dream – and notice, as you look up to the ceiling, there’s a picture over your bed. A painting. You turn around, watching it closely.  
It’s a man, a tailor, sitting at a work bench, watching a beautiful woman in a green dress cleaning the floor. You see writing in the corner. You stand up to be able to read it.

MacLeod’s tailoring, Edinburgh, unknown master, about 1687

“Fergus”, you suddenly think as the tears running down your face.


End file.
